Pretty on the Outside

Image, my friend Michael likes to tell people, is everything. He runs a modeling agency and it's his business to know. What may be pretty on the outside, however, does not always reflect the inner reality. This does not concern him in the slightest as he makes his living from superficiality and outward appearances - and more power to him - but for the rest of us, sometimes the underneath shoves it's way through and it can be ugly and evil tempered.

He had decided to take the Mercedes convertible out as it was a pretty day. He knew the tags were expired and the inspection sticker out of date and when he was pulled over, he was resigned to a stiff fine and a stern lecture. He had - in a rare display of good sense and diplomacy - decided against righteous indignation in favor of honesty and courtesy. He would take his medicine. He did not anticipate being arrested on the spot, They actually handcuffed me! he told me, horror stricken, and took me to jail! He was fingerprinted and photographed and put into a cell, treated like a criminal and forced to wait to be bailed out.

Bet you pulled him right off the golf course! the old hag matron cackled to the arresting officer. Nope, the cop told her, Just a traffic stop.
Well, then, she cackled some more, Bet it was a big ol' fancy Cad-de- lack!
Nope, the officer told her with a grin, Just a purty, lil' silver Mur-say-dees.

Some four hours later, bailed out and badly shaken by the experience, Michael returned home in a frenzy of fury and humiliation. Rubbing elbows with the great unwashed is not something he does willingly or well. It's a scam! he told me with heartfelt and sincere indignation, The city is cracking down because they need money! I was victimized!

You broke the law, I pointed out, what did you expect?
Not to be taken to jail! he wailed, Not for a traffic violation!

I couldn't help it, picturing him being handcuffed was bad enough, but as he described being fingerprinted and put unceremoniously into a cell to await his 'phone call, I began to laugh. The more he railed, the harder I laughed.
What in hell is funny about this? he demanded and I couldn't even begin to answer.

If image is everything, his had taken a distinct wrong turn.

No Harm Done

Undeterred by the loss of his wagon or his adventure in the sea, Willie Foot somehow persuaded Uncle Len to build him a scooter. It was primitive, just two boards, set at right angles, a handlebar and a pair of wheels. For a time, Willie set it in his front yard and decorated it with grass and roots. Then he painted it, crooked stripes of bright red and white and added a straw basket for collecting rocks. Inevitably, he walked the contraption to the top of the hill and began riding it down, landing first in the ditch and then the Sullivan's front yard and lastly, on a bright Monday morning as Nana was hanging clothes, careening down our steep gravel driveway at breakneck speed. Nana looked up and shouted a curse then began flailing her arms but Willie never noticed. He turned the handlebar and headed straight for the clothesline with my grandmother screeching in protest. In a matter of seconds, Nana, Willie and the scooter were all on the ground in a tangle of wet sheets and clothespins. The back door slammed and my mother appeared with a mixing bowl in her hands and a puzzled expression on her face then the dogs, roused by the commotion and not to be left out of the fun, came rushing around the corner and immediately dived headlong into the whole soggy, sorry mess. Nana's pristine white sheets were soon a muddy, grass stained mess and while my mother laughed so hard she dropped the mixing bowl, my grandmother emerged with a look of homicidal fury. Flinging aside sheets and pillow cases, she got to her feet, adjusted her glasses, smoothed out her apron, and began a methodical search for Willie who had managed to creep under the woodshed and was well on his way to a clean getaway, his more or less intact scooter clutched under one arm.

She stopped only long enough to snatch an ax from the woodbox then marched toward the back field. I'll have you and your damn scooter for firewood, Willie! I heard her threaten, That I will! She found him cowering just outside the playhouse, curled up in a ball in the tall grass and sobbing piteously, one arm around his scooter, the other wrapped in a pillow case, his bright green hair matted with mud and weeds. From the playhouse window, I watched her lower the ax, sigh deeply, and then awkwardly get to her knees beside him. Never mind, Willie, she told him resignedly, We'll just wash it all again. No harm done. He looked at her with a shaky smile, his crossed eyes filled with tears and his wild hair half covering his face. Like a child, he shyly offered up the ruined pillow case and then a pocketful of pennies, holding them in his grubby hand like treasure. Nana sighed heavily and took a deep breath.
You keep them, Willie, she said gruffly and struggled to her feet, Now, go home and get cleaned up. And she managed a smile. And Willie, she called after him as he skipped up the driveway, From now on, you ride your scooter in the cove! He nodded happily before carefully putting the scooter on the ground, saluting her smartly, and then detoured through the strawberry field, the remains of the scooter slung over one crooked shoulder.

My grandmother walked slowly to the clothesline to survey the damage to her morning's work. She looked to the sky as if for strength then gathered up the linens one by one and began again.

Cast Off

How far have we to go, sir? a seaman in the cast off boat asked wearily of Captain Bligh.
Don't let your mind dwell on that, lad, the captain replied almost kindly, think of how far we've come.

Being a cast off child means an endless search for acceptance and approval, a watchfulness for demons around each corner, a constant expectation of disappointment. It leads to making bad choices for desperate reasons, erecting walls to keep people at a distance, suspicion and an inability to trust. Painful, angry memories are always just below the surface, waiting to explode and shatter whatever good thing you may stumble onto. You look for and usually find the worst, forgetting that balance overcomes eventually and that the playing field will level out. You never quite learn how to forgive but you do learn how to confront the demons and put them in their place. It's a start.

Friends, in this case, my dear friend Tricia, point out that if I had had a mother who loved her children, I might've missed the amazing, strange, and wonderful people I knew as a child, might never have known the love of a place that has endured for over 60 years. In an intact family, there might've been stability and security, even safety but I might've missed the intimacy with my grandmother and all the characters she collected. I might never have discovered the strength and support of The Twelve Steps or learned true independence. I would never have been drawn to Lee, who became my surrogate mother and loved me through it all, would never have met her daughter whose friendship I treasure so dearly. Life with the love of a mother might've been easier but almost certainly it would've been less colorful and far less of an adventure.

Cast off and adrift, with not enough food or fresh water and motivated only by a need to survive and a thirst for revenge, Captain Bligh reached England. So shall I, by concentrating not on how far there is to go, but how far I have come.

Penny Candy

Aunt Flo's cousin, twice removed on her mother's side, ran a tiny candy store at the foot of the breakwater. It wasn't much more than a shack surrounding a half dozen or so cracked and dusty glass display cases that held penny candy - licorice whips, carmels, jawbreakers, root beer barrels, jelly beans. Around his neck, Uncle Bernie wore a miniature silver scoop on a long silver chain. A penny's worth of candy was one scoop and for an nickel you could open the battered, old red and white cooler and add a bottle of pop from the clear, icy water. It was a kids store and on Saturday afternoons in the summer, Uncle Bernie would sit just outside the door and read to us from The Brothers Grimm, fairy tales filled with blood and gore and unhappy endings, horrifying tales of ogres and dragons and trolls under bridges. Here we learned about witches who cast nasty spells and roasted children alive, about evil dwarves with pointy shoes and scruffy beards, about werewolves and vampires and haunted forests. Uncle Bernie read with enthusiasm and great energy, adding faces, gestures and sound effects to the stories and we were carried away by his imagination and imagery - we shivered with fear and screamed in delight and always begged for more.

Later on the stories became bloodier and more grotesque - Dracula was portrayed with a make believe cape to hide his eyes, an unnerving, cackling laugh and an improbable but completely convincing accent. The Frankenstein monster and Jack the Ripper came to life before our eyes as did Sweeny Todd, Lizzie Borden, The Phantom of the Rue Morgue, even a Lovecraft character or two. Fact or fiction, Uncle Bernie read and acted it all out, capturing us and our curiosity, encouraging us to read and discover the wonder for ourselves. He treasured books and authors and all things literary and wanted us to do the same.

For those who couldn't read - child and adult alike - he opened his home during the evenings and helped them to learn. When my grandmother and others questioned his choice of reading material, he waved them off. Literacy is a gift, he told them sagely, and it should be passed around just like penny candy, otherwise it goes stale. The stories continued without change, all the horror kept our attention until gradually our imaginations grew and we sought out our own stories. And it all began with penny candy and fairy tales.

The Pennygoods

After 67 years of marriage - the best time of his life, Mr. Pennygood told me, fighting back tears - his wife had passed on Saturday night. She had just turned 86 and had died at home in the bed they had shared for all of their married life, in the house they had lived in for the last 50 years.

I remembered her as being a slight, frail woman with gray hair tied in braids and wound around her head. She walked with effort, usually leaning on his arm while he leaned on his cane. They were a small couple, always smartly dressed and unfailingly polite. This day, Mr. Pennygood wore a blue tie with geometric shapes and a matching handkerchief tucked neatly into his breast pocket, his gold rimmed glasses sparkled. The best time of his life, he repeated with a wan smile, she had been an exceptional woman. The viewing would be tomorrow and they would lay her to rest the following day. He would preach his regular sermon on Sunday, given in her memory, and the entire congregation would attend. She had loved the choir, had sung in it for years, he said, and her voice would be much missed. It had comforted him to preach knowing she was always behind him, her sweet soprano raised in the singing of praises, her voice in harmony with God and life. It had not always been an easy life, he told me, even with her at his side, but it had always been a good one, filled with grace and sweetness, struggle and determination. They had risen above the name calling and racism of the south to build a small, sturdy church and a small, loyal congregation. They had rebuilt after the burning and the threats, had never given up on faith, had survived and continued to preach forgiveness and love even when shut out and despised. Years of nickels and dimes put away in coffee cans had paid to send their only daughter to teaching college and to make a down payment on a small house.

I listened to Mr. Pennygood with a sense of sadness at his loss and amazement at his acceptance. He told me he'd gotten the call just after they met and had given up his day laboring job to join the church. He began preaching with her full support although it meant living on next to nothing in a dogtrot house in a neglected and forgotten part of town.
She wrote his sermons out in longhand and never missed a Sunday service. In the years before their daughter was born, they lived on beans and rice, charity and hope. Mrs. Pennygood cleaned houses by day and office buildings by night so that he could spend his time doing the Lord's work. Never a word of complaint, never a doubt that it was the right thing to do, never a question about his devotion. She believed with her whole heart, he said, in him and the life he had chosen for her.

His daughter, now a teacher in Dallas, had suggested he come and live with her but he had refused. His work, he had told her firmly, was not finished and he would not leave the little house he had shared with her mother, not leave his congregation or his friends. She had protested that he shouldn't be alone, that it would be no trouble, that she wanted him to come, that he would love the city and would have a room all to his own, that his grandchildren needed to have time with him. It was all to no avail and Mr. Pennygood had hugged her and smiled, a preacher he was and a preacher he would stay until it was time to go. Mrs. Pennygood, he suspected, was watching and he would not disappoint her, not after 67 years.

Partners in Crime

Hank had worked for my grandfather even longer than my daddy.

In addition to being a licensed funeral director, he acted as limousine and hearse driver, pall bearer and casket carrier, all around handyman and jack of all trades. He supervised the interns, did small repairs, cleaned up the morgue and was on call around the clock. If the power went out, the walk needed shoveling or the windows washing, you called Hank. If a car wouldn't start, the water heater sprung a leak, or the pipe organ needed repairing, you called Hank. If you needed to find my daddy, wherever he was, or needed a ride home from school, you called Hank. If you needed a shoulder to cry on, you called Hank.

He was a huge, bulky man with a perpetual scowl, a taciturn nature and an untamed mane of thick, silver hair that would never stay in place. His collars were always too tight and his vest buttons seemed to strain at the seams as if they might pop off at any moment. He stood well over six feet and was an imposing if slightly sinister figure at wakes and services, standing motionless and watchfully overseeing the proceedings from the shadows, ready to intervene at the first breach of etiquette or the first awkwardness. He was, my daddy said, an extra pair of hands, always thinking three steps ahead and prepared to handle the unexpected with polished skill and such efficiency that it was barely noticeable. Since he so rarely smiled or displayed emotion, it was easy to think him distant, certainly intimidating, even forbidding, when just the opposite was true. Despite his size and football player build, despite his gruffness and one word answers, despite his overall bearish-ness, his heart was breakable and kind.
When he grew a silvery mustache, he looked all the world like a combination of mafia knee breaker and Santa Claus- elegant, well dressed and manicured, but with a faint scent of menace mixed with his Old Spice.

It was said that on his rare nights off, he prowled the Boston clubs and the Cambridge underground, a lavish blonde on each arm. It was said that he was on speaking terms with gangsters as far away as Providence and with detectives as far away as New York. All anyone knew for certain was that he often did not return until the following morning and after a quick shave and shower, would go immediately back to work. He spoke to no one of his off time, he was wife-less and childless, worked most holidays and could level anyone curious enough to ask about his personal life with a level but icy glare. My daddy would smile at the speculation and rumors but never denied or confirmed a word. He minds his business, he told me once, and expects you to mind your's.

His blind side turned out to be a surprising and remarkable lack of foresight in the simplest of things. He grew tired and exasperated at the habit of the interns pocketing the company keys to the two hearses and limousines.
He tried making extra sets of keys without success. He tried dismantling the door locks without success. He tried dire threats and docking their pay without success. And finally he hit upon a foolproof scheme and spent an entire morning welding the keys to a length of chain and the chain to the dashboard of each vehicle. As if by engraved invitation, all four cars were promptly stolen.

He hit the Cambridge streets in a black mood and within 24 hours each vehicle was back in it's place, no questions asked, no damage done, no police reports filed. Sometimes, my daddy told me, not knowing whether to be furious or admiring, it pays to have friends in low places.

Nary A Lamb Were Lost

No one would own up to leaving the gate open that warm summer day when the lambs got loose. All anyone was positive of was that a flock of sheep had come thundering down the coast from 'round The Point, turned the corner to the wharf and headed toward the open water at breakneck speed with Old Hat and her shotgun hot on their heels. The lambs reached the end of the breakwater where there was a mass collision and pile up, then the laws of physics and oncoming momentum took charge and over they went.

The ensuing commotion would've woken the dead, Nana claimed afterwards - twenty or thirty sheep sinking into the sea and Old Hat watching in a mad, helpless dance of passion and rage, screaming curses to the afternoon sky and firing at the gathering seagulls. From his front porch, Sparrow watched the growing chaos and sighing heavily, rose from his old rocking chair and trotted toward the disaster. He calmly disengaged the shotgun from the old crone's hands and in one smooth gesture tossed her scrawny body feet first into the ocean. By then, incoming fishermen were on the scene, netting the sheep into their boats and the factory women had left their places to wade into the water and drag the protesting lambs to land. Old Hat was rescued last and brought to shore, 90 pounds of kicking, screeching, clawing and ungrateful profanity, neatly tucked under John Sullivan's arm, kelp covered and spitting sea water. It were some sorry sight, Alice, John allowed to my grandmother later that day, Some comical, too, but nary a lamb were lost. That old scattergun though, well, that be a diff'rent tale.

To the dismay of no one save its owner, the old shotgun had mysteriously vanished in the fray. Sparrow claimed to have flung it into the waves and while no one confirmed this, no one contradicted it either. It was not found that day, not found for many days after and then it appeared to have washed up on the rocks in several useless pieces. The old hag gathered them carefully and buried them in the back garden under Sparrow's distant but one good eye. When she was done, she scattered ashes and barb wire over the ground, layered it with rocks, and spit. The scattergun was retired at long last and The Point became a quieter place. And nary a lamb had been lost.

The Good China

Being a product of terribly proper old Boston stock, my Aunt Helen was fairly appalled with her new husband's side of the family. Is it true, she asked my grandmother as she adjusted her dress to cover her knees, that you have cousins in......well, Worcester? And that Jan's husband comes from an exceptionally ...........well, shall we say, a rather distressingly prolific family?

My grandmother looked at her Beacon Hill born and bred sister in law and paused in her knitting. It is, she said calmly, but let me reassure you, Helen, it's hardly contaigious.

Helen gave a delicate shiver and pulled her sweater over her narrow shoulders. Good heavens, Alice, she said with a touch of starch in her tone, Worcester! They're foreigners! And ten children veritably shrieks of a lack of self control, not to mention other interests!

Nana sighed and tapped her knitting needles together sharply. Helen, she said, adding her own starch, Have you considered the possibility that your sensitive and proper breeding might have neglected the area of, dare I say, good manners?

Come now, Alice, Helen huffed, I certainly meant no offense.

You always mean to offend, old girl, my Uncle Eddie chimed in cheerfully from the archway, She can't help it, Alice,
that silver spoon has stuck in her craw since day one. Just ignore her.

Aunt Helen winced and turned her back, her dignity too assaulted to respond and her senses overcome by her husband's crude language. To make it worse, my grandmother winked at me and Uncle Eddie laughed outloud, sister and brother in league against the proper head mistress and her snooty, intolerable good breeding. We might have been kinder had she ever relented or shown any sign of imperfection, but all she had was her snobbery and she distanced herself from those below her at every opportunity. At the suggestion that we all help clear the dinner table, she raised her eyebrows in surprise and rallied. Have you no help for that sort of thing? she asked with a hint of distaste as we gathered dirty dishes and trekked to the kitchen. Nana paused at the swinging door, the not quite empty, silver gravy boat balanced in one hand as she judged the height of the candles and the distance to Helen's still occupied chair just beyond them. Uncle Eddie smoothly intervened and with one practiced move swept the gravy boat away and steered his sister through the door. I think it's cook's night off, dear, he told Aunt Helen with a tolerant smile, just before dodging a suddenly airborn coffee cup Nana had flung at him from the kitchen, Why don't you retire to the drawing room? Helen's face paled as a juice glass whizzed past his ear, followed by a barrage of black olives and celery and then an unexpected mix of cursing and laughter. She fled to the living room with Uncle Eddie loudly protesting, Not the good china, Alice!

Myrtle & Twice A Week Walter

My mother's friend, Myrtle, was a Cambridge shop girl.

She was in her thirties when I first met her - chubby and just over five feet tall with dark hair and a bright smile. She wore oversized, black rimmed glasses with rhinestones on the corners and always a touch of red - lipstick, scarf, shoes or purse. She tended to sparkle and she chattered non stop and mindlessly. She worked in an upscale department store in Cambridge, selling ladies wear or as she said with a giggle and slight blush, undergarments and foundations. She had a blatant crush on my daddy and took to batting her eyelashes and smiling shyly at him at every opportunity, cupping his hands in her's when he lit her cigarettes and gazing at him with a starcrossed and lost expression that we found endearing and slightly comical. For heaven's sake, Myrtle, my grandmother would snap at her, Act your age! And Myrtle would sigh and pout at the reprimand but she was never deterred.

Still single and aching for a home, a husband and children, Myrtle dated an intriguing variety of men. She found them through personal ads, lonely hearts clubs, church groups, blind dates and matchmaking friends. Each new man was cause for hope and celebration but there were rarely second dates - her eagerness to please was wearying, her chatter wore them out, her very nature and childlike innocence put them off. Be yourself, my grandmother told her with a scowl, Stop trying so hard! And tears would well up in Myrtle's eyes at this verbal slap, her hurt feelings spilling over with her tears. Nana immediately relented, drying her tears and chiding her gently for being overly sensitive and too tender hearted. Be patient, dear, she would say kindly, The right man will come along when you least expect him. And Myrtle would raise her head and wail with despair at the prospect of dying a virgin.

In a perfect world, the right man would've come along, met the shop girl and swept her off her feet in a daze of romance and flowers and candlelight dinners. Reality, however, is less kind and the right man never materialized for Myrtle. More and more time passed between first dates until they stopped altogether and little by little, Myrtle aged, saddened, and gradually came to accept that a shop girl she was and would always be. She hated being a realist and dreaded being alone and old but she kept her bitterness mostly to herself and concentrated on being the best shop girl she could be. When her mother became ill, she moved back home to be a caretaker in a small walkup apartment in Brighton, just over the Cambridge line. She barely noticed Twice A Week Walter, her mother's home health nurse who came each Tuesday and Friday, a chubby little man in white scrubs and hospital shoes with a perpetual smile and Paul Newman blue eyes. He looks a little like a Christmas elf, she confided to my grandmother, And sometimes he brings flowers. Nana raised an eyebrow and looked at Myrtle closely. For you? she asked casually and Myrtle shook her head, Oh, heavens no, for Mother. My grandmother paused and then asked, Are you sure? Myrtle gave her a startled look and laughed self consciously.

I think my grandmother may have been the only one who was not surprised when Myrtle and Twice A Week Walter eloped to Las Vegas the following year. The announcement was made with a flurry of postcards written in splashy, bright red ink. The shop girl found the right man as soon as she stopped desperately searching - all she had to do was get out of her own way.

A Small Spark of Discontent

It begins with a small spark of discontent.

Perhaps your feelings get hurt by a thoughtlessly passed remark or well meant reprimand. Someone else discovers a mistake you've made and you are corrected with less gentleness that you think you deserve. You feel the demands on your time are unreasonable or excessive and there are not enough hours in a day to get it all done. It's suggested that you try harder, focus more intently, pay more attention, become a team player, get with the program. There's an unsaid "or else". The words sting, justified or not, and you carry them home where the small spark gets kindled and turned into a fire, which when given enough time, turns into a steady and bright burning blaze. The fire is fed and maintained by those close to you - a friend, a spouse, a partner - and while it may be meant to be supportive and helpful and offsetting, the result is that a minor slight that should die a natural death is nourished until it blossoms and bears fruit. Your hurt feelings turn into a conviction that you are being taken advantage of which turns to resentment which turns to anger. Rather than accept your own responsibility, you decide to take a stand against your oppressor, refuse to be exploited any further, demand your rights and demonstrate the strength of your position. Eventually, whether you quit or are fired, very little is resolved and the entire process is doomed to repeat itself.

As with any destructive and self perpetuating cycle, it's a difficult and painful progression to watch. The search for approval and praise is not something we can conveniently set aside and fragile egos break easily when built on the values of others. Be cautious in making a bid for sympathy and understanding at the end of a rough day - those who care may do more damage than the day itself.

Life vs Limb

A yellow rose in an etched glass vase sits on his bedside table and a brightly colored balloon floats above it. A pastel get well card is propped up against a few unread magazines. These are the only touches of color in this cheerlesss, antiseptic hospital room. James lays, hands at his sides and eyes shut, with tell tale wetness on his cheeks. In a few hours, the surgeons will come and to save his life, will take his leg, just below the knee. The gangrene has raged unchecked through his ankle and calf, headed for his thigh and beyond. There is no choice save amputation and while he understands that it must be, it's an offense that he has not had time to come to terms with. Infection and pain have taken a heavy toll in a remarkably short time.

The girls sit quietly by his bedside, their presence brings a small measure of comfort. There is no effort at humor or to artificially raise his spirits, no denial of what lies ahead. No one tells him stories about overcoming adversity or what a one legged man might accomplish. There is no attempt to cheer him up or take his mind off it. No one suggests that it's the will of God at work. They simply sit with him, being there so that he is less alone with his demons and his fears. Sometimes they hold his hand, sometimes they cry, but they stay - they sense when there is a time to just be.

The hard part is ahead - the adjustments and compromises he will need to make, the work of therapy and more pain, the habits he will have to change and the acceptance he will need to find. He is tempted to let go and give up, you can see it in his face, so the girls visit each day after work and the nurses are kinder than they need to be.
This soft spoken and gentle man has unexpectedly touched us all.

Professional detachment aside, all our frail sides are showing.

A Prayer for James

If Nelson Mandella and Fred Astaire were blended together, you would have James.

He is tall and too thin but not in the least gawky or clumsy. He has a shy smile and the manners of a gentleman, courteous and well bred. His skin is richly chocolate and his hands are cared for with slender fingers and manicured nails, a pianist's hands, perhaps, or an artist's. He dresses in cardigan sweaters and tailored trousers, not new but clean and pressed, well maintained. It pains him deeply to have to ask for leniency on his bill - when he is able to pay he writes his checks in advance so as not to make me wait. There is a sweetness in this man that captures all our hearts. He is alone, no children to help out, just one beleaguered sister and one old friend from somewhere in Texas who alternately provide his transportation. He has taken the trouble to learn all our names, he is always on time, and he never breathes a word of complaint or discontent.

Waiting to be called, he sits patiently in the waiting room, hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair, eyes cast downward except to briefly smile at other arriving patients. His once chiseled face is remarkably unlined and caught unaware, you can see the young man he once was, young and good looking with lively eyes, eyes that still twinkle even in his late 70's. He doesn't look at his watch or fidget, doesn't sigh or get restless. He simply waits, calmly and peacefully, surrounded by an aura of near serenity. He gives no sign of being what is medically termed a "non compliant" patient but during his early treatment, he did not follow the doctor's orders to rest and stay off his feet, wanting to make the most of every bit of time he has left. A sore led to an abscess, an abscess to an ulcer, an ulcer to gangrene and finally to amputation of two toes. And the poison continues to spread, his foot and possibly even his leg are at risk. It was this news that finally broke his reserve and his spirit - he sat in the waiting room, now confined to a wheel chair, hid his face with his hands and began to weep. It broke our hearts.

We gathered around him, feeling helpless as we offered hollow comfort and encouraging but empty words. One of the nurses held his trembling hands while the other put an arm around his shaking shoulders. It was an unguarded moment and in it we saw his vulnerable side - lonely, sick, in pain, very frightened and ashamed of making a scene. God will get you through this, one of the nurses told him gently, You can't give up. The other hugged him and nodded, Have faith, she said softly. He looked up, tears streaking his cheeks and gave us a faltering smile.
One day at a time, James, I told him, fighting back my own tears, It's going to be allright. This didn't feel true but I badly wanted it to be, and as we watched him being loaded into the ambulance for the hospital, I think we all said a prayer for him - for strength, endurance, hope, and healing.

It's a good prayer for us all.

Doolittle & Davey Jones

Doolittle had loved seagulls since before time. To the horror of his parents, he would stuff his pockets with bits of salt fish and seek them out among the seaweed and driftwood of the cove. After years of patient waiting and daily coaxing, they began to follow him wherever he went, a thick cloud of feathery gray and white birds in graceful flight, yellow beaked and glassy eyed, a cloud of noise in free formation.

Doolittle would sit cross legged in the damp sand and call to them. They came in droves, landing nearer and nearer until he could reach out and touch them, laughing at their flapping, frenzied antics, and offering them his fish bits. They snatched at his fingers and his collar and his boots but never drew blood and though loud and peckish with each other, they were almost dainty with him, almost gentle. Gradually, he was able to stroke their smooth feathered backs and run his fingers along their wings while they ate. Slowly he became one with them and was accepted and befriended with no sign of fear on their part, no hesitation at his approach. He ran along the beach with his arms outstretched and they made a path for him, barring his way only as he neared the treeline or the treacherous rock formations, then they descended in a protective wave, swooping, diving and cawing in warning. He listened and changed direction quickly, his laughter blending with their calls, his footsteps mixing with the sound of their wings.
Offshore, fishermen in passing boats watched and shook their heads in bewilderment and admiration - it was hard to separate the boy on the beach from the cloud of birds around him - harder still to keep in mind that the birds could see and the boy could not.

Having been born blind, Doolittle took his lack of sight for granted and didn't give it much thought. He learned through his other senses, through hearing, touching, and most of all through sensing. People give off waves, he told my grandmother, like heat from a stove. I feel them. He could tell moods through silence as well as voices, could discern falsehoods from truth by tones and sensed rather than heard emotions. Island folk were generous with him, teaching him things that he could not see - how hair could be silky and fine or coarse and rough, how skin could be tanned and leathery or smooth and unlined. He recognized people by their smells - pipe tobacco, shampoo, rum or baking flour -
he learned how to tell one fish from another, how to navigate by sound and wind, how to run his hands through a dog's coat to determine the breed. And he learned to associate colors with temperature, hot for reds and oranges, ice for blues and grays. He could never articulate how he saw these things in his mind but we knew that he did. He had perfect pitch, an uncanny gift for mimicry and whether counting footsteps to ascertain distance or following the birds to the edge of a cliff, he always seemed to know where he was and how far he could go. He was fearless with curiosity and perpetually on the move to explore, investigate and push against limits. He would not be tamed down or confined, would not retreat, would not be defined his blindness or driven into a box.

Hearing of his antics on the beach with the birds, Doolittle's granddaddy, Daniel, pronounced in no uncertain terms, The boy has to be taught to swim. This declaration was met with fierce resistance by all except Doolittle, the general feeling being that the ocean would simply take who it wanted, when it wanted and learning to swim was no real protection, but Old Daniel stood his ground. Sweet Jaysus, he growled at the opposition, This is an island and the boy be blind. Don't take much figurin' to know what needs to be done. So for several mornings in July, Daniel and Doolittle and one of the summer people met at the cove and into the icy water they went. Doolittle learned to swim above and below the water, to breaststroke and dog paddle and lay on his back and not sink. Daniel was well pleased and his mind was put to rest. Leastways, he told John Sullivan, if Davey Jones takes a mind to have the boy, he'll have to fight for 'im.

Davey Jones got his chance a few years later when Doolittle, hearing the sound of an injured gull off the cove's rocky coast, shed his boots and headed toward the cries. He swam just as he had been taught, breathing regularly and stroking firmly into the waves with no panic and no thought of giving in. He swam back, following the sounds of the seagulls above him, the injured bird passive and secured to his shirt. Compassion and friendship took him out and the tide and the gulls brought him back in. Davey Jones had been denied the boy and the gull and sightlessness had conquered the sea.

No! No! We Won't Go!

The black cat in the middle of the road and directly in my path to my driveway was pretending not to see me. I gunned the engine slightly and he paid no mind. I honked the horn and he favored me with a disdainful glance, full of challenge, and he didn't budge. I drove a few inches closer and he turned his back with a switch of his tail that clearly said "Dismissed!" or perhaps "Go around!"

You can't win an argument with a cat, I know because I've tried, so there was nothing to be done except pull to the curb and manually move him. He was less than pleased with this strategy but after an initial warning growl which I ignored, he consented to be carried to the sidewalk with no resistance. I should've suspected that this had been too easy but feeling superior, I returned to my car. He immediately returned to his place in the street, sitting squarely in the center and facing me with an unmistakable expression of victory over the poor, foolish human.

I tried again, this time moving him further from the sidewalk and onto the yard. Stay! I told him sternly, You wanna be roadkill? Again, by the time I'd returned to the car, he was once again in the street and had called in reinforcements, the tortoiseshell from two houses down and the tabby from next door were now all three in the center of the street, defiantly staring in my direction and presenting a united front. I began to consider the possibility that cats could be reincarnated as war protesters from the 60's or possibly a new breed of four footed and furry terrorists. Neither seemed likely but the fact was that three neighborhood cats were preventing me from getting home and it did seem planned if not outright organized. I half expected to hear a chant, something along the lines of What do we want? Peace! When do we want it? Now!

The standoff might've continued but in the interests of getting home and not setting off further protests, I gave way. The cats watched as I left the car and walked to the house and once I'd reached the front steps, they casually drifted away, the battle won. A high five wouldn't have surprised me much but then I remembered that they were cats, not a gang or a a terrorist cell, not boycotters or a picket line, just cats - admittedly, with attitude and a small victory, but still, no more than cats.

Fight only for what matters in this life, Choose your battles, as Uncle Shad told me so long ago, Then choose your burdens. You can't win an argument with a cat.

A Meandering Mind

Stay away from jazz and liquor.
Richard Gere, "Chicago"

The cost of the weekend shows in her eyes - dark circles and dilated pupils. There is a sense of "poor me" about her, put upon and weary, despite a bright smile. She can't concentrate, can't stay focused on a task, her mind twitters from one thing to another like a butterfly and when asked a question, she has to think hard before answering. She speaks of being depressed and overburdened, overwhelmed by the effort of life and responsibility. She is always in the midst of some small drama that is more than she can handle and it overflows into the workplace, making her scattered, forgetful, inefficient. Communication is difficult because she stops paying attention, distracted by a stray thought or a loose thread. She has a meandering mind and the soul of fashion designer - useful for artists and poets, perhaps, impossible to dislike, but uncompromisingly fatal in her job as nurse assistant where accuracy and attention to detail are essential.

Can she change? the doctor wonders aloud to me and though I don't say it, I really don't think so. She is a fragile soul, drawn to the artistic side of life and the pretty things. Dates and times and diagnosis codes hold no interest for her, she is more comfortable with a pencil and a sketch pad than a keyboard. She is not a malcontent nor a complainer, not lazy, not incapable, not indifferent - she's just slightly soft focus and pastel in a sharply defined black and white world and she doesn't fit yet.

I will be sad if we lose her for the world needs flower children with melancholy and rose colored glasses. We are all the same except for what makes us different.

Snuff, Wood Shavings & Free Advice

Ain't no sense in chasin' after what you ain't never gonna catch, Uncle Shad observed from his place on an upended barrel in front McIntyre's Store. He sat with his slouch hat pulled over his eyes against the sun, small piles of wood shavings accumulating around his feet and one cheek puffed out from snuff. Mind your footin', boy! he periodically yelled at my brother who was wading in the cove, trying to catch fish practically barehanded, Them rocks be slippery and I ain't no mind to fetch after you! My brother paid no attention - intent on snaring an unwary mackerel, he was hip deep in ocean, holding his home made spear, a pocket knife securely lashed to a thin tree branch. Too much book learnin', Shad muttered and spat tobacco juice at the precise moment my grandmother emerged from McIntyre's. Shadrach! she barked at him, That's a filthy habit! and Uncle Shad winced and wiped his mouth with one flannel sleeve, Ayuh, he agreed, It be that. The other men gathered around snickered at this reprimand although they carefully shaded their smiles from my grandmother's eyes, none wishing to be her next target. After the old Lincoln had pulled out in a cloud of dust and gravel, they prodded the wizened, elf-like little man good naturedly about not standing up to a woman but he refused to take their bait. Ain't much time we be given on this earth, he told them mildly, Best to pick your battles.

It was sound advice, worth keeping and taking, but I didn't know it at the time - a thirteen year old, rebellious tomboy hasn't much use for philosophy and at the time, in a relentless war with my mother, the only thing that seemed worth the fight was independence and the far off possibility of winning. My grandmother was on my side only randomly, when it suited her to join the battle for her own purpose, otherwise I felt on my own and outnumbered, dismissed and set aside. Uncle Shad, having raised two daughters alone after his wife's death, knew about conflict and loneliness in young girls and knew that at the approach of the Lincoln, I had run for cover behind the crumbling old Westscott steps. He pocketed his knife, returned the barrel to it's place and began walking down the road toward the dance hall and The Old Road. At the steps, he paused and called my name. Walk with me, child, he called quietly.

We walked past the fishing shacks and the post office, the barber shop that only opened it's doors only on Saturday nights, the picture show, the dance hall, and the old breakwater. The tide was coming in, gulls were gathering and there was a light, salt breeze. The sun was going down over Brier Island and we stopped to watch the sky turn to pink and blue and fiery red - a late boat chugged through the passage, passing Peter's Island and heading for the last wharf, making slow but steady progress against the choppy waves and all the while Uncle Shad talked to me, about my mother, about growing up, about winning and losing and what it all meant. There's more'n one way to win and more'n one way to lose, he told me as we took the shortcut through Uncle Willie's pasture, then across the road and to the path through the strawberry field. I could smell supper and hear the dogs as they came bounding toward us.
Make up your mind what matters, Uncle Shad called over his shoulder, and then pick your battles.

Gentle Spirits

A word from the 60's - they're alive and well.

Except for the harsh lighting, our local coffee shop and cafe is a step back in time. Once a week, it opens it's doors to young and aspiring singer/songwriters with borrowed or beat up guitars who sing of lost love, inner torment, suffering and politics. There is an abundance of long hair and tattered jeans and sketchbooks. Many carry ragged, ruled spiral notebooks and they compare lyrics and ideas over espresso and herbal tea. Each sings two original songs and each is applauded - whether for talent or effort makes no difference - they support each other and their common ambitions. Awesome! they exclaim and Way to tell it, man!

These are gentle spirits, mostly young, many still in school or in their first jobs, learning, searching and exploring. They push the boundaries peacefully, they protest through lyrics and satire. Their music is often dark and intense, metaphorical and profound, but it can also be light and playful, with a sharp wit and a bite. It's poetry and essays and commentary set to song, sometimes surprisingly good and sometimes appallingly bad. Listening to them reminds me of being in my own twenties - young, dedicated, serious, and in love - with no concept of being 30 or 40 or 50, much less 60, no concept of the future as anything but a bright road with a sunset at the end.

The world has changed beyond measure, beyond anything I ever could have imagined, just as it is likely to do for these young musicians. But the music and those who write and perform it, who dream it, goes on.

Lessons from Gym Class

No pain, no gain, our old gym teacher was fond of saying.

She was a tightly muscled and bronzed woman with a mane of dark hair that she tied into a taut pony tail during gym sessions. She moved like a wild animal on the hunt, stealthy and quiet with a kind of deadliness in her eyes. She missed nothing, no misstep went unnoticed, no hesitation was left unchallenged, no fear of falling was bypassed. Her girls were there to learn, to perform, to be their best. We were terrified of her.

She wore silk gym shorts and a halter top and bound her breasts flat so that no ounce of skin would even think of moving freely. As she made for the old leather horse and onehandedly bound over it, so quick that it was almost silent, her spotless Nikes blurred and she landed perfectly on the other side, arms outstretched, feet planted firmly on the floor. She was the most graceful and agile woman we had ever seen, a small figure flying through the air with supreme confidence and breathless speed. She walked the balance beam with light, precise steps - climbed the ropes hand over hand in a matter of seconds - did acrobatics on the trampoline like dancing in the air - and soared on the rings, upside down and rigid, by her knees, backwards and then swinging by her ankles. We watched in awe, a huddle of 7th grade girls in baggy bloomers and loose fitting sweatshirts, awkward, intimidated, self conscious and despairing.

No pain, no gain, she repeated over and over as she lined us up by height, appraising and evaluating each of us, slapping away figeting hands, straightening slumped shoulders, encouraging pride and good posture with a firm but gentle touch, three days a week, one nightmarish hour at a time. Under her supervision we suffered through field hockey, softball, basketball, and the dreaded gymnastics classes - ever so slowly discovering that we were capable of far more than we thought - learning strength, coordination, balance, timing and endurance. She taught us how to work together, instilling team spirit and cooperation without our even knowing it. We learned how to win with grace and how to lose without blame or giving up.

If you fall, get up, she drilled us. If you fail, learn from it.

We were fragile, freshman girls on unfamiliar territory - shy, apprehensive, a little lost in this overcrowded and often anonymous high school - and yet this demanding, intense, small woman saw potential in each of us and gave her all to draw it out. By the end of the first year, we had actually begun to believe she might be right. By the end of the second year, gym had become more of a break than a torture. By the end of the third year, we went willingly and at the beginning of the final year when she presented each of us with a set of silk shorts and halter top - in school colors with "AHS" stitched boldly across the back and down the sides and paid for from her own slim earnings - we were athletes and we were worthy.

We finished second in the senior gymnastics competition that year, in the end, the Winchester team outfought us and took home the trophy but in our teacher's eyes, we had given it our all and she was well pleased. So were we.

Little By Slow

It's a funny thing, my grandmother remarked one morning at breakfast, that by the time you're old enough to be smart and enjoy life, it's almost over.

She was just in her sixties then, roughly the same age I am now, widowed and well off, with a feisty streak. When it suited her, she spoke her mind plainly and with little thought to the consequences. When it didn't, she could be as silent as a grave. More often than not, she said what she was thinking in no uncertain terms and had no patience for social niceties. Honesty is one of the only advantages of getting old, she liked to tell me, nobody pays much attention anyway.

While my mother railed nonstop about my tomboy nature, my grandmother shrugged it off as a phase and scolded only when I didn't clean up before a meal - nail inspection was mandatory and she would often check behind my ears and send me back to the kitchen sink. Nothing shameful about good, honest dirt, she said firmly, but it does not come to the supper table. Blue jeans and tee shirts were perfectly acceptable everyday wear except on Sundays for church, fried chicken was not meant to be eaten with a knife and fork, cussing was best left to grownups and, within reason, honesty was the best policy, At least until you're my age. I can't remember when her hair was anything but snowy white and I never, ever saw her in anything but a neatly ironed house dress, support stockings and sensible black shoes. She tolerated no interruption to Lawrence Welk or Liberace but thought soap operas a tasteless and inane waste of airwaves. She could be as patient as the day is long or as just as easily frustrated. She loved card games - bridge, canasta, hearts - and was a fierce competitor, ruthless when winning and coldly calculating when losing. When she chose to rule, it was usually with an iron hand and no back talk but when she chose to be kind, she could be stunningly so.

She believed in playing the hand you were dealt but that you made your own luck by paying attention and staying focused, that addiction was no more than a dressed up word for weak willed, that money couldn't buy happiness and that there was an afterlife waiting. You get there little by slow, she often told me, just like anything that's really important or really hard, little by slow.

Wretched Weather

The storm broke with a surprising violence, flooding the streets in just minutes. Thunder rumbled and lightning cracked across the sky in jagged streaks while patrons on the patio, wine glasses in hand, fled for the shelter of the restaurant and caused a massive traffic snarl at the hostess stand. Servers bobbed and weaved trying to salvage dinner plates and drinks and temporary tables were set up in the Bottle Shop to accomodate the evicted and unexpected guests. Good humor mixed with resignation and umbrellas.

Among the displaced was a couple who had just left the Bottle Shop, a couple made rude and wretched by an over abundance of alcohol. They had been loud and ungracious, yelling questions across the width of the store, tripping over wine displays and generally behaving as drunks often do - they were demanding, obnoxious and petulant, taking without asking from cheese trays being prepared for other diners, interrupting conversations, stumbling into each other, badgering the servers for attention. Also as many drunks do, they appeared to think their behavior was amusing and entertaining to themselves and others though their language was suggestive and coarse and their laughter reeked with alcohol induced humor. Being paid employees, we worked around them as best we could - the guests were a good deal less tolerant, shunning them with glaring, disdainful looks and complaining about their low class manners, hoping they would choose somewhere else for dinner.

Public intoxication is neither a pretty sight nor a funny one. The woman, thin and well dressed and clearly once a beauty, was now fading with deep creases in her face and papery skin that makeup could not hide. The man, pudgy in his khaki pants and polo shirt, wore his white hair in a spiky crewcut, an array of gold chains around his thick neck and a diamond drop earring from one ear. They waved wine bottles around like flags, pretending to do battle with each other and then collapsing with convulsive laughter. Inevitably, a bottle of French wine collided with a wine rack, broke, and sent a shower of wine and glass in all directions - Oh, look! the woman shrieked, I christened a ship! The man's face abruptly changed at that, his sense of humor not extending to his wine stained khakis or the cost of the bottle.

The storm raged for a short while then dissipated, flooded streets returned to normal although the air stayed heavy and wet and the ground was saturated. Like the unpredictable spring weather, alcohol raises its head, does its damage and then retreats until the next storm.

House vs Home

I've been thinking about houses and how they speak.

My friend Tricia's house calls to you. It's rich tones and warmth invite you in, offering comfort and elegance all in one. It speaks of good taste and quality, crystal and fine art - a mixture of modern and traditional blended and laid out by her own hand. It's filled with color and texture and love and the voices of children grown and moved away but always welcomed home. It's a good place to be.

My friend Iris's house spoke in the happy jumble of a work in progress. Things out of place, intimate and spacious at the same time. It was a house well lived in and well used where neatness and order took a back seat to family gatherings, where all were welcome all the time. It was a refuge.

My mother's house spoke of conflict and contradiction, reined in and tightly controlled, filled with stained furniture and discounted gadgets. The rooms were small and carefully cluttered and everyone had their place in them. You did not sit in my mother's chair, did not make yourself at home, did not move things without permission. It was oppressive and uncomfortable, cheap and tasteless.

My grandmother's house resembled a museum, muted shades of beige and gray and dusky green, quiet tones and understated furnishings, costly but soft spoken and very proper. It was a staid house where great rooms were filled with Victorian era sofas and armoires, where the television was always on low volume, where damask curtains kept out the light and the hall mirror always sparkled. It was a place of dark, polished, lemon scented wood, glassed in bookcases and low light, lace doilies and subtle conversations. It was a place of safety and sanity, of dignity and old world order. When it spoke, it said "Ssssshh..... don't forget to wipe your feet."

The house she kept in Nova Scotia couldn't have been more different, it was filled with sunshine from every window, painted in bright reds and whites and always wide open to whoever happened by. The furniture was haphazard at best, collected over the years from who knew where - leather rockers, old cots decorated with patchwork quilts and multicolored pillows, assorted lamps with fringe, a ship's clock that chimed each quarter hour when someone thought to wind it. It smelled of sea spray and fresh linens, home cooking and lavender. It was home.

Ruby's house was a maze of small rooms, nooks and crannies, cluttered and sometimes hard to navigate. It spoke of country living and farm work, of gingerbread and front porch sitting, vegetable gardens and old time religion. The television was out of place here, a nod to progress in a house from the past and a novelty to my tiny grandmother who had raised ten children almost single handedly. Her house whispered, "The work is never done here.....".

My own house - small and overrun with cats and dogs - is a sanctuary to me. Here I write and remember, retreat and regroup. Here I can sleep all day and shut out the world. There is no elegance or silence here, no antiques or fine things, nothing precious or of any value except to me. There is no history here and when the house speaks, it speaks only of now and it says "Be content, life is more than a house."

What the Sea Wants

What the sea wants, Robert had written in his diary, the sea will have. What is not given freely, she will take by seduction or force. Her name is Sacrifice.

Robert had fished alone since the loss of his father and two brothers. He had wanted to attend grade twelve on the mainland, had been one of the schoolteacher's most promising students with a natural love for language and a gift for learning. He was curious, inventive, hungry for words and determined to absorb all he could and pass it on. He studied hard and was focused on a future of teaching and writing. He often kept the schoolteacher late to examine his papers in detail and criticize his work. He treated his books like treasures and mystified his family with his passion for schooling and accomplishment. The sea will never be enough for him, his daddy confessed to my grandmother sadly only to have Nana snap back at him, And why should it be, Cyrus? Give the boy his chance.

Robert's chance almost came but for the day his father and brothers headed out under bright, blue skies and didn't return. A freak storm hit and the boats turned back but at the last minute, Cyrus hesitated to clear a fouled net. Still could've made it, John Sullivan told Nana angrily, Would've made it 'cept for that second storm and the sea closin' in the way she did. Wasn't nothin' we could do. Nana went with Long John to break the news and didn't come back until the next day. There was a widow and two small daughters to be tended to and Robert was on the mainland, taking his grade twelve test.

He returned to step into his father's shoes, putting his grade twelve dreams and scores behind him. He had become the only surviving male in his family and there was work to be done, women to be provided for, a house to be put in order. His choices, he came to realize, had gone to the sea and been lost in a freak summer storm. His dreams had been drowned and for just one day, he allowed himself the luxury of rage and bitterness, cursing the ocean and those who earned their living from it, cursing the village and the poverty in which he lived, cursing God for His cruelty and nature for her power. Then, tearless and resigned, barely sixteen and still a child, he took his place as breadwinner and fisherman and vowed never to look back.

He spent the remainder of his life on the sea, seeing both his sisters married and moved away, caring for his mother until her death, eventually marrying and beginning his own family and taking over the house he'd known all his life. He became a good and faithful husband, a loving father and good provider. He was, if not happy, at least content and late at night he wrote of all the things that might have been, pouring out his bitterness and regrets on paper, hoping to put an end to them. He wrote mostly about the sea and her savageness, about a sadness that ebbed but never fully left, about how life plays tricks and takes what it likes, just like the sea. He was an ordinary man, disappointed and often gazing out over a horizon that beckoned but never got any closer except in his imagination. He was reconciled to what was but he missed what might have been and he never truly forgave the sea for her demands.

The sea, his last diary entry read, is never satisfied. The more you give, the more she demands.

Tending Your Own Garden

It's often hard to tend to your own garden when the weeds of others are constantly trespassing.

They will creep through fences and take root, slither through the soil nonchalantly and wrap themselves around your roses. Your own flowers will starve and wilt, unable to withstand the mass assault and you will be so obsessed with weed killing that you may not notice. One day, being sure that the weeds have been beaten back and defeated, you will stand back and discover that your own garden has died from neglect. Or worse, that you've lost interest in flowers altogether and the weeds are still thriving and demanding attention.

Luckily, spring and second chances are only a season away - we live in a world where it's never too late for self renewal.

Out of Step

Despite all the technology in my life, I still pay bills by hand. There's something comforting in balancing my checkbook and signing my name, licking envelopes and pasting stamps. It feels old fashioned and familiar, like list making and marking events on an oversized wall calendar. It's reassuring to my naturally and hopelessly low tech nature.

The concept of a paperless society tends to unnerve me in spite of all its promises of progress. I still like watches with real faces rather than digital readouts, still prefer cash to credit, would rather write than talk on the 'phone. I want books with spines, preferably in hardback, acoustic guitars before electric, a real piano rather than a keyboard and trifocals as opposed to contacts. I'm out of step and like it that way despite the fact that it's a struggle, I'm still more likely to cross things out instead of redact them, more willing to walk than run.

I drink diet coke and take plain aspirin, don't believe in electronic fencing or rap music, have developed a thing for Pavarotti and miss wood stoves and clotheslines. I hate cell phones, don't understand Ipods, am suspicious of GPS tracking devices, don't trust politicians and take a dim view of computer operated cash registers. I'd rather read Life or Readers Digest than People and can't stand the idea of fitness clubs. On line dating spooks me and having met my inner child made me want to move on.

I miss real neighborhoods and leaving my doors unlocked, being able to smoke in restaurants, song lyrics that make sense, people with a genuine work ethic, well behaved children, masses said in Latin. Shrink wrap plastic is the definition of evil and contrary to public opinion, there is precious little veritas in vino. The war on drugs will never be won, poor breeding has ruined too many breeds of dogs, and there's a difference between dancing and advertising.
Glass elevators are in poor taste and you shouldn't expect to find Kraft singles in an upscale wine and cheese shop.
I yearn for real butter on popcorn, romance, a Schipperke to win Westminster, on demand rehab, affordable health care, gun control, the recognition of same sex marriage, harmless chocolate.

To the flower children and rebels of the 60's, to the change resistance in us all, to the struggling, disillusioned and poor, all too stubborn to give up - Peace Out.

Desperation: The Battle Continues

Live your life in such a way that when your feet hit the floor each morning, Satan shudders and says "Oh, no, she's awake."

This exceptionally fine advice was sent to me recently by a dear friend in Dallas - simple, straightforward and powerful. In these black times, we need all the help we can get and there's no time like desperation to keep faith and optimism alive and well. Some mornings, only sheer will and an assortment of cold, curious noses get me out of bed. I resent the sunlight pouring through the blinds and the bird songs I hear, every passing second of time is an enemy, daily chores and routines dull my senses to a point of indifference and the call to give up is loud and clear. Surely the light at the end of the tunnel can only be an oncoming freight train.

My animals bring me back from the edge - not just that I must care for them and keep them safe, see that they're fed and sheltered and protected - it's their outlook on life as well. The small brown dog finds happiness in the smallest of things - the smell of the grass, a late afternoon breeze, the warmth of the sun or the comfort of a new fleece blanket. The black dog's love of life is limitless and incomprehensibly enthusiastic - she is curious about everything, a wind up toy on warp speed, never complacent or depressed, never overwhelmed, never not sure that the next corner turned will bring fresh adventure and a new start. The cats, each in their own way, embrace life and celebrate it although at a slower pace. They wake to each new day bright eyed and lazy, never doubting that it will be better than the day before, always in search of the next meal, the next nap, the next cardboard box, the next squirrel sighting.

Giving up is not an option so let the devil beware. Better times will come.

Baked Goods

Strawberries grew wild in the field between the driveway and the curve of the road and years of cutting through had made something of a path through. Further down, a thicket of blackberry brambles grew wild and had to be cut back each summer to keep the flagpole clear. On warm summer mornings, Nana would send us out with small, plastic buckets to collect berries for pies, cobblers, muffins and jams. We emerged bloody and bruised but victoriously carrying full pails of sweet fruit that she would gently wash and drain and turn into all manner of pastries. By that afternoon, the whole house would be steamy and hot and reeking of wild fruit and Nana would be washing dishes and setting pies to cool on the window sills. The following day we would make rounds, delivering baked goods all over the island to the elderly and infirm, the lonely, the pastor and the postmistress and the factory workers. It's a small thing, Nana told me, but it makes a difference.

My mother sneered at this generosity, calling it a waste of time and unappreciated charity, but Nana ignored her. She preferred the company of the island women to that of her own daughter as a general rule, saying that poverty was more honest, that it built character, strength and resilience.
You can't be a spoiled brat when you're one of a dozen kids, she pointed out briskly, there's no room for selfishness when you're just trying to survive.

This lightly veiled reference to my parents' marriage was a theme of my grandmother's. While she believed in til death us do part, she also believed that marital mistakes should be corrected and that vows didn't apply in certain situations. She hinted that my mother had somehow tricked my daddy into marriage to get away from home and then nailed him down with children and responsibilities, knowing that he would never abandon her. It was a cruel thought, bitter and angry, but knowing my mother as I later came to, it wasn't impossible. Nana was mystified by her only child - her drinking, her indifference to her children, her selfishness and infidelities - all made my grandmother furious and ashamed and overwhelmed with guilt that somehow it was her fault. My daddy dismissed this with a wave of his hand, telling her with something almost like conviction, that she was making a mountain of a molehill, that it wasn't as bad as it appeared, that most of the blame was on him anyway - he worked all the time, hadn't been there, hadn't provided for her as she'd expected. I'm something of a disappointment to her, Alice, I heard him say, I'm not what she was counting on. My grandmother flared at this and railed at him but he laughed it off, gave her a hug and told her not to weary. She smiled at that and shooed him away to help pack the day's baked goods into the old Lincoln.

You're daddy's a damn fool, Nana told me, a good man, but a damn fool.

Release the Hounds

The sign on the kennel cage was 11X14 and in thick, black, block letters read one word: CAUTION. It was underlined several times for emphasis.

The black dog sat, scrunched into a corner with her hackles raised and her teeth bared, growling at the helpless young kennel assistant. She was a serious sight, all menace and canines and madness in her eyes. Leash in hand, he took a tentative step toward her and she slammed her muzzle at the cage bars, snarling and intent on blood. He jumped back and gave me an apologetic look. She's a little upset, he said, white faced and weakly. So I see, I told him mildly, I'll handle her. I knelt in front in the cage and spoke her name and she instantly leaped at me, entire body trembling and barking loudy in protest and accusation. She rushed me, all kisses and frantic pawing with hot breath panting in my ears. Madness became joy, her relief at being set free was overwhelming. She gave a throaty farewell growl to the other dogs, made a final but half hearted lunge at the kennel assistant then consented to being leashed and led out, head held high, small body trotting disdainfully and with as much dignity as she could manage under the circumstances. And so, to the relief of everyone involved, ended the dogs' annual spa day.

We drove home quietly, the small brown dog curled between my neck and the headrest, the black dog sleeping on the passenger seat, exhausted from battle and content to chase the rabbits in her dreams. The following night I was to find myself in the Animal Emergency Clinic - while I had been at work, the black dog had jumped or fallen and badly twisted a front leg. She was in a fair amount of pain and although I knew it would self-correct, I couldn't bear to see her hurting so I carried her to the all night clinic - it was early in the evening and we were the only ones there until a young couple brought in their boxer who had smashed a jar of hot sauce and eaten it as well as the glass. This was followed by a miscarrying cat, a terrier mix who had been in a fight with a raccoon, and an Old English Sheepdog who had been caught in a barbed wire fence. The black dog watched this sad little parade from the safety of my lap, she made no sounds or threats until the vet tech approached her, muzzle in hand, and then hiding her face she began to growl a warning. I slipped the muzzle on and handed her over reluctantly. Twenty minutes and a pain injection later we were on our way home again and by the following morning she was her old feisty, fearsome self, terrorizing the cats and wreaking havoc throughout the house. All was once again right in her world.